


ripped at every edge but you're a masterpiece

by andfinallywearehome



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Art History, Lmao what is this, M/M, based on a conversation about q's starbucks orders, because that boy would go wild, coffee shop!AU, q is very passionate about art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 02:37:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14823635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andfinallywearehome/pseuds/andfinallywearehome
Summary: When he approaches the counter, all he says is, "I'll have a Fighting Temeraire.”Bond raises an eyebrow - Mallory, as far as he knows, hasn't branched out much further than naming a drink after Van Gough's Sunflowers, some elaborate latte with far too much syrup in it. "Excuse me?""Fighting Temeraire," he repeats, and then scoffs when Bond doesn't comment. "It's a Turner painting.""I gathered that.” He can’t work at a coffee place based around art without picking up a little knowledge. “But this isn't a gallery. You can't just fling around a name of a painting and expect me to know what *coffee* you want."(or, the one where q is a very serious art student who likes to order overcomplicated drinks, bond is a barista, and mallory owns the most pretentious coffee place in london)





	ripped at every edge but you're a masterpiece

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FireflyHannah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FireflyHannah/gifts).



> one conversation about q's coffee orders sparked all of this, hence why hannah has been gifted this mess. :) i'm sorry it's so bad, my lovely, but i wanted you to have it.
> 
>  
> 
> title comes from the song Colors by halsey, and i own nothing recognisable.

If there is supposed to be an ideal customer for this place, Bond is sure that this kid would be it.

What else is he supposed to expect? A coffee shop with drinks all named after famous artists - because Mallory likes to think he's sophisticated, or perhaps likes to think that he's the only one in London who has ever been to the National Gallery - is bound to attract the pretentious art students from that upper-class arts university just down the street. It's all a bit much in Bond's opinion, but he's basically worked out that when the students want a Van Gough they want a latte, and a Picasso is supposed to be a mocha (chocolate with coffee is, in Bond's opinion, a hybrid that should never have come about), and usually he doesn't need more than that to get by.

But, yeah, Bond thinks, this customer is _exactly_ what he had expected, to the point where he's basically a walking cliché. He’s skinny and pale, with a mop of dark hair and eyes that appear to be green from where they are hidden behind his glasses, and he has a rather tatty copy of what looks like a guidebook of the best art museums in London tucked under an arm that is wrapped in a cardigan that is the _worst_ shade of mustard.

When he approaches the counter, all he says is, "I'll have a Fighting Temeraire.”

Bond raises an eyebrow - Mallory, as far as he knows, hasn't branched out much further than naming a drink after Van Gough's _Sunflowers_ , some elaborate latte with far too much syrup in it. "Excuse me?"

" _Fighting Temeraire_ ," he repeats, and then scoffs when Bond doesn't comment. "It's a Turner painting."

"I gathered that.” He can’t work at a coffee place based around art without picking up a little knowledge. “But this isn't a gallery. You can't just fling around a name of a painting and expect me to know what _coffee_ you want."

Mr Pretentious Art Student sighs like this is all a big inconvenience to him. "Iced americano, three shots of milk, cinnamon for a kick. "

“So -” Bond raises an eyebrow “- watery milk and cinnamon, then, is what you're saying."

The customer sniffs, like this absurd concoction is something that shouldn't be judged. "It’s an acquired taste."

"Sounds vile," Bond, who drinks black coffee and nothing but black coffee, says, but he can't really start a full on argument here so he makes the stupid drink, manages to hold his gag reflex, and passes it to Mr Pretentious Art Student who doesn't even _tip_.

_Well, then._

 

+

 

Two days later, the art student is back, ordering something equally as ridiculous. This time, it's John Millais' _Ophelia_ that's the culprit - and god forbid you don't have nice words to say about it. Bond thinks the bloke is going to leap over the counter and strangle him for referring to it as "the painting of the woman with the flowers in the stream."

"Each flower was meticulously _chosen_ and _crafted_ ," he insists, barely restraining his irritation. "They all have meanings that relate to the scene in the Shakespeare play."

"Is that why you're trying to order bloody rose water in your coffee? We don't even _stock_ rose water."

"We might have some in the back." The new voice belongs to Tanner, drifting past with an order for table five, and Bond thinks, in that moment, he might want to slap him more than Mr Pretentious Art Student.

He can't even get the fucking bottle of rose water open when he actually _does_ manage to find it; it's fused shut after being shoved in the back of the stock room for so long. Not that the art student would care; he's too busy worrying about how he's going to miss his lecture on pre-Raphaelite influences or some crap that Bond couldn't care all that much about.

"Of course it'll open," he says, when Bond has been ready to admit defeat for the past three minutes."Put your back into it."

"Why don't you come over here and put _your_ back into it?" Bond snaps, only to have a rather pointed cough directed at him from Mallory, who's lurking by the counter to keep an eye on things. No doubt he's going to get a lecture about customer relations once this shift is over.

Eventually, he gets the stupid rose water open, makes this stupid espresso, coco and rose water blend and pushes it across the counter towards Mr Art Student without any trace of a smile, and has to bite back the _close the door on your way out_ that threatens to escape.

 

+

 

Vesper Lynd comes to visit a month after Bond's first day. She's a ray of sunshine, a promise of warm hugs that remind him of home, and she's a welcome sight in the rush of the coffee shop’s lunchtime shift.

"Don't tell me you've come all this way just to see me," Bond says, pushing a Rossetti across the counter towards a customer called Fields.

"Don't flatter yourself," Vesper says fondly. "I'm meeting a family friend."

"That _isn't_ me?"

She chuckles. "Sorry to disappoint, but you're not my only friend."

She glances towards the door at the sound of it opening with another rush of people coming in, and her face brightens as she spots the person who must be this family friend. Bond glances that way too, curious, and -

\- and of course it's Mr Pretentious Art Student. Of _course_ it is.

"I'm sorry, we're all out of rose water today," Bond says, when he gives him a nod of recognition. "You want an _Ophelia_ , you go and get your own bloody ingredients."

"Have you been causing trouble again, Q?" Vesper asks, eyebrow raised, but _Q_ only rolls his eyes. Bond rolls his eyes too, because he should have known that the pretentious arse would only have a single letter as a name. Maybe he thinks a normal name isn’t artistic enough.

Vesper orders a Sunflowers before they leave. Q orders a drink Bond has never heard of - a Shalott, after the Waterhouse painting - because _of course he does_.

 

+

 

Shame Bond can't get rid of him that easily. Q and Vesper leave to wander the city, but he is back two hours later, that same museum guide under his arm and a new scowl on his face that hadn't been there earlier.

"What do you want this time?" Bond says, and the scowl only deepens.

"I’ll take two shots of espresso."

"Wow. No god awful coffee orders this time. What's wrong?"

"Do you really want to know?”

“I’ve already had a lecture on company policy today. It can’t be much worse than that.”

“Vesper is back with her boyfriend."

"Oh." Bond doesn't see why that has elicited such a response. He remembers when Vesper had broken up with Yusef the first time, when she had spent the evening in Bond's flat crying over their Chinese takeaway. "What's the problem with that?"

"The _problem_ is that she deserves so much better than him!" Q says, loud enough that a few people actually turn to look at him, and it's like the thin stretch of patience he could have had is now gone. "He cheated on her with some woman from Canada for _months_ , and she won't see that he hasn't changed."

Bond hands him his espresso shots, one of which Q downs in one go, before he starts making another drink. "People do strange things when they're in love."

"He had a whole speech," Q continues, bitter, "about how different he was. How he's _changed_. He hasn't changed. He'll look at any other woman given half the chance, but she loves him so she can't see it." He knocks back his other espresso. "She keeps making it sound like I don't want her to be happy, and I _do_. Just not with someone like _him_.” He sighs.“Sorry. I know you're probably not interested. I just don't have anyone else to talk to."

He looks a little lost now, even younger than usual with those wide green eyes behind his glasses, and Bond realises that he might actually feel sympathy for him. He knows the frustration of not having people listen when you think you know what’s best for them, after all. He can't say this out loud, however, so he simply pushes the extra drink across the counter.

"Here."

"What's this?"

"Fighting Temeraire. You'd probably much rather be drinking this crap anyway."

For the first time since he walked in, there’s a smile is on Q's face. "Thank you." Then: "I didn't think you'd remember it."

"Watery milk and cinnamon? How could I forget that?"

Q makes a sound that's akin to a chuckle, sipping on his ridiculous coffee. "Maybe you'd like it if you gave it a try."

"I’d really rather not. I think I'll stick to my regular coffee."

"How dull."

"I didn't think _that_ -" Bond gestures to the awful looking coffee in Q's grip "- was what most people considered living dangerously."

"That's because most people don't know how to live dangerously properly." Q smooths out a page of his guidebook and the action catches Bond's eye. The pages on the inside look even more tatty that the cover.

"Do you always have that on you?"

"Not always. But most of the time. I'm an art student, it's kind of my job."

"You say that like I didn't clock you were an art student from the minute you first walked in."

"Is it that obvious?"

"You're here in the first place, aren't you?"

Q gives him a half smile. "I suppose."

He stays for another half an hour, striking up idle conversation with Bond as he fires off coffee orders, leaving half of his Fighting Temeraire on the counter when he disappears off to make peace with Vesper after all. Bond tries an experimental sip of it before he throws it away, just to see what Q finds so interesting.

It's as vile as he thought it would be. It still makes him smile a little bit.

 

 

+

 

It takes two weeks for Q to come back again. This time, he's armed with a new book from the Tate Britain and tries to find the most obscure art drinks he can. Bond has no idea how to make any of them, and he's half sure that Q is just making them up now for the hell of it, just to see how annoyed he can make him, but hey, he's the one paying the three pounds RRP every time. He also learns a lot about art, because Q will take any excuse to show off his knowledge, except once it was annoying and now it’s kind of endearing.

"Cut the poor bloke some slack, Bond," Tanner chuckles as he brings back the empty tray from table number seven. "He's been trying to impress you for two months now."

Bond laughs it off, but he can't help but wonder if that might be true - and then he wonders why he's not even that mad about it.

 

+

 

It's been just over four months since his first sighting of Q that Bond gives in and brings up the idea that Q should take him to an art gallery. The bloke nearly spits out his coffee - "You should see _Ophelia_ in person, it's a bloody _masterpiece_." - in sheer excitement, and Bond has to smile at it because it's a little adorable. He's starting noticing that a lot recently - Q's quirks are no longer things that bother him, even if some of those coffee orders do look revolting.

They end up going to the Tate Britain gallery in Vauxhall, where the famed Millas painting hangs. Bond listens as Q points out every different flower in the image of Ophelia and what they mean, and watches the way his eyes brighten and shine as he gets more and more passionate with every passing second. It’s very distracting, to say the least. He’s not even paying that much attention to the art itself, until Q suddenly comes to a stop in front of a specific painting.

“This is one of my favourites too. _April Love_ , by Hughes.” Bond suddenly becomes aware of how much Q is looking at him, as if trying to gauge his reaction. "It’s supposed to be about two lovers who worry that their love isn’t going to last."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah." The tips of his ears are starting to turn pink. "The ivy around them is seen as a contrast, though, because it symbolises everlasting love."

"Really?” Neither of them are looking at the painting now. “How fascinating."

"Uh hu.” Bond watches as his gaze travels down his face and rests on his lips, and then he snaps himself out of it, looking down at the guidebook that is definitely not James bond. "Anyway, er, there’s more pre-Raphaelite paintings over this way."

 

+

 

It becomes their tradition, in a way. Bond will let Q drag him around every art gallery in London, whilst he rants on about historical paintings and artists and influential images that shaped culture. This particular Wednesday, they’re in the National Gallery, but Q doesn’t seem to be up for a leisurely stroll, if the way he’s striding through each room without even a glance towards any of the art is anything to go by.

They stop in room thirty four, and Bond soon spots the painting Q has been trying to show him.

" _The Fighting Temeraire_."

"Where it all began,”Q agrees, and there’s something oddly romantic about that. Bond hopes he’s not the only one who’s noticed.

He nods towards the painting, and instead says aloud: "That’s a bloody big ship."

"It is, This one always makes me feel a little melancholy."

"Well, we cant have that, can we?"

Q looks towards the melancholy painting in question, and then back again to Bond. “No, I don’t suppose we can.”

Bond doesn’t know how else to respond to that, if not to kiss him, chaste against his lips with a hand on his cheek. It must be the right decision, because Q finally lets go of that stupid guidebook - it clatters to the floor at their feet - in favour of wrapping his arms around him.

"I couldn't coax you away from the rest of the gallery for a dinner date, could I?" Bond asks when they break for air, his cheek resting on the head of dark curls.

"You could try,” Q replies, cheerful. “You probably wouldn’t succeed."

"Damn," Bond says, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips so the words have no impact, and when Q retrieves the book, grabs his hand and drags him in the direction of the next room, he's very much willing to follow.

**Author's Note:**

> if you made it to the end, well done. i can only apologise.


End file.
